


Improvising

by orphan_account



Category: The Hurt Locker
Genre: M/M, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-24
Updated: 2009-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-05 04:46:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/37954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>War is a drug.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Improvising

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oddegg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oddegg/gifts).



The first week back is perfect.

She meets his aircraft after it lands, weaving through the throngs of happy families to throw her arms around his neck. He wraps his arms about her waist, lifting her, breathing her in.

His son gurgles from his stroller, and James leans down, lifts him up, presses his nose to the soft downy skin. "Hi, kiddo," he grins, and the baby laughs.

That night, when the baby is asleep in the nursery, she closes their bedroom door, slips off her jeans and sweater, and walks slowly towards the bed where he waits, his heart tripping erratically.

"I missed you so much," she whispers, her lips moving down his jaw, neck, chest. "I love you."

He rolls them over, runs his calloused fingers down the planes of her stomach.

It's perfect.

\---

His fingers itch.

He watches the news about a convoy hit by a daisy-chain IED. Seven dead. And his fingers twitch at his side, imagining where the charge would have been, where the wires would have crossed and forked. What explosive did they use, he wonders. What camouflage?

On day nine, he picks up the phone, dials six numbers, then hangs up.

\---

"I'm going Christmas shopping," she says. "Can you watch him?"

He nods, bouncing the baby on his lap. "We're going to have a good time, aren't we buddy?"

His son reaches for his nose, giggling. James grins.

Two hours later, the baby is crawling around his pile of blocks while James watches the news. Suicide bomber in a car, drove up to a FOB checkpoint and detonated.

James closes his eyes, and can almost feel the heat, the dryness. He imagines the weight of the suit, the tightness of the mask, the amplified sounds of his breathing. He can almost hear Sanborn, a constant presence in his right ear, always watching. __

(I think us working together means, I talk to you, you talk to me.

We going on a date, Sanborn?)

His heart is pounding fiercely as he visualizes the bomb. The wires tangle in front of him, a challenge. Dust gets in his eyes, sweat dripping off his nose as he leans over his work.

"Hey!" she calls, shutting the front door behind her. "I got chicken for dinner."

James opens his eyes. He's dry, the air is cool. His son is playing with his own toes. His heartbeat slows, an adrenaline rush with no release.

\---

A week past New Year's, he picks up the phone, dials all seven numbers, and stays on the line until it's picked up.

"Hello?" Sanborn asks, sleep in his voice. It's four in the morning. "Who the hell is this?"

James opens his mouth to speak. Shuts it again.

There's a pause. Then: "James?"

James laughs, he can't help it. "How's it going?"

"Fucking hell, James, it's four am."

His hand tightens on the handheld. "Yeah. Yeah, sorry."

James hangs up. He stays out on the back porch, smoking, until the sun comes up.

\---

Sanborn shows up the next day.

\---

"What." James stands dumbly at the door. "Hey."

"You okay?" Sanborn asks, glaring.

"I'm fine," James shrugs.

Sanborn nods. "Then what was with the phone call?"

"Lost track of the hour," James grins. "Still on Iraq time, I guess."

Sanborn hesitates, his eyes softening. "Yeah."

James' smile fades.

\---

They go for a ride, rifles in the back, beer in the front seat. Definitely not Army protocol.

Sanborn drives, and when James slides into shotgun he glances over his left shoulder instinctively.

"Eldridge is healing faster than expected," Sanborn says, catching James' slip. "Should be walking in a couple months."

"Good," James murmurs. "That's good."

They careen down the country road. Sanborn only swerves into the right lane when there is oncoming traffic. Otherwise, they drive straight down the middle, straddling the broken yellow line.

"Expecting any IEDs around here?" James jokes.

"Hard habit to break," Sanborn replies, his eyes dancing around the road. He checks his mirrors, left window, right window, a flash of movement at his two o'clock.

They park.

They drink.

They fire off a couple of rounds, but the loud _CRACK_ sounding in damp, dark wooded areas is unsatisfying, muffled. Instead of echoes sounding off building and pavement, the sound disappears into the tall, sweet smelling woods. The rifles are tossed back into the car.

They drink.

The sauce is hitting them as they sing jodies loudly, arms swinging around shoulders, the two swaying together, apart.

James laughs, his hand grabbing the back of Sanborn's neck. "You're a good kid," he grins, pressing their foreheads together.

"Shut the fuck up," Sanborn says, and kisses him.

\---

"I miss the heat," James says later in the bed of Sanborn's truck. "I miss the sand."

"You're crazy," Sanborn replies. He's sitting up, leaning against the side of the truck. Beer in hand, he looks away from James, out into the dark.

"No, I'm not," James say softly, flicking his cigarette. He sits up, pulling his pants up and fastening them. "I'm not crazy."

Sanborn watches as James hops from the truck, hunting down his boots and jacket. "You want to go back, don't you?"

"Yep," James states, tugging on one boot with difficulty.

"When?"

He shrugs. "Soon."

Sanborn clambers down from the truck, going to stand in front of his team leader. "Why?"

James smiles blankly. "I'm good at it. I'm _great_ at it."

"You're going to die. You won't survive another tour."

"Sure I will."

"No." Sanborn seizes at James' sweater as he turns away. "No, you're a crazy motherfucker out there, and you're going to get killed."

"I'll be fine," James says, his jaw set. "They need good bomb techs."

"I won't..." Sanborn trails off.

"You what?"

"Nothing."

"No, come on, asshole," James says, knocking him on the shoulder. "You won't what? Call? Write? Suck my dick anymore?"

"I won't be there to watch your back. Think you can survive a year without me and Eldrige, taking care of your shit for you?"

James laughs caustically. "Think you guys are that great? There's a dozen like you in Delta Company alone. You're just the hired grunts. I was the genius at work."

Sanborn hauls off and punches him in the face. James spins around and lands on the soft ground, leaves crumbling under his hands.

"Go ahead," Sanborn mutters. "Head back over to the sandbox, get yourself blown to pieces by some fucking hajji who doesn't care about you. He just wants to kill a guy in uniform, you're not special to them."

James stumbles to his feet awkwardly and stands in front of Sanborn. Patting his cheek clumsily, he moves towards the truck. "Nice to know you care, sweetheart."

Sanborn stands for a moment, furious, confused. But James is already in the passenger seat, his head lolling back against the seat. So he has no choice but to climb into the driver's seat and reverse onto the road.

They're almost back to James' house when the team leader opens his eyes. "I've been thinking about building bombs."

Sanborn looks over at him. "What?"

"Bombs. IEDs. I've been thinking about building them."

His fingers tighten on the steering wheel. "What for?"

"So I can take them apart." He smiles. "I'd put a timer on it, though. For the challenge."

\---

He packs his footlocker again.

She watches, her expression dark and hurt.

He closes his eyes and thinks of heat, and dust, and wires.


End file.
